With You
by Skadiyoko
Summary: It's 1956, and world events are affecting the personal relationship between America and England in a bad way. It is England's wish that their love is strong enough to make it through this.


My first even semi-historical fic. I've always been a bit scared to write them, because I'm afraid that I'll get something wrong, or have inaccuracies. But I figured, hey, why not try? Practice makes perfect and all that fun stuff.

Set in September, 1956. There really was a Summit from the 19th-21st, but I stupidly forgot to write down what country it was in, and couldn't find that source again. I'm pretty sure I read France, or England, but went for France because it's part of the mainland, and blah blah blah.

For trololover on Tumblr.

Based on the song "Always" by Blink 182.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Exhaustion.

That word perfectly described England. He was exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally. Across the Channel, his bed was calling for him. It's been far too long since he has gotten a proper night's sleep, and it was weighing. Sleeping sounded wonderful. The perfect way to escape reality. Unfortunately for the island nation, he sat wide awake in Paris of all places. Three days of putting up with all of the other nations, eating overly seasoned food, and breathing smelly air was ahead of him. Sighing, he checked his watch to see that only two hours had passed.

If the world weren't in such chaos, the man guessed that it would be more bearable. But now? There was simply too much going on. In first place was the almost war going on between the United States, and the Soviet Union. Even during the second great war, everyone could see the bitter tension whenever America and Russia were together, but they did not have the time nor energy to focus on it, so the two were left alone. Once the war ended, though... It was scary, and England had no shame admitting that. Those two could start World War Three; if those nuclear weapons were put to use, then they were all dead. Bottle green eyes glanced to the two superpowers. Both were acting like they were not paying attention to each other, but their stiff postures, and fake smiles said otherwise.

England could not handle another war. He barely made it through the last one! Two horrific, senseless wars in less than fifty years was more than enough. Every inch of him still ached, and the nightmares were far from receding. As well as the scars. They were all scarred from this, in one way or another. Scanning over the room, he could almost see the marked, multi colored skin. Stopping at Japan, a surge of empathy ran through him. Japan was his friend, had been for a long time, but that is another thing the war ruined. Hopefully, one day, they could fix it. But now he was sat in-between a feuding China and Taiwan, obviously wanting to be anywhere else, yet too polite to do anything about it. Underneath the Asian's neat, pressed suit, England knew there were red, angry patches of bandaged flesh. The thought made him angry.

Of course, the Brit was not helping much in the matter of world affairs either. This Suez Canal crisis was a major headache, and he knew it. Sitting on his right ws Israel, and beside the Middle Eastern nation was France. Hushed tones transferred between the three of them, discussing offensive tactics to rid them of their problem. Kicking the other two in their shins, once again, he wordlessly reprimanded them for glaring at Egypt so openly. They pouted, and he turned away. He did not want to use force. No, the man was still so damaged, but he could see no other way. He needed that canal!

Blue eyed him with disappointment, and it only made everything so much harder.

America had become the source of his emotional drain, and instability. Eleven years have passed since they had joyously kissed in the midst of happiness and tearstained cheers, thus beginning their new relationship. England was not sure how much longer they would last. It was so difficult to be in the same room together, much less dating. Rushing into such a thing was stupid, but at the time it felt so, so right. He loved America dearly, that much had always been obvious, but right now everything was too much. For the past few years they have gotten into arguments almost every time they were together. The Suez only magnified them.

America's attitude was grinding on his very last nerve. Paranoia seemed to be his new fad, along with panty raids and that ridiculous haircut. Every time he went to visit, the Englishman was forced to answer an insane amount of questions, as well as have his person searched for any bugs or weapons. Though, the search had only happened once. After that, the blue-eyed blonde would only get through half of his questions before England exploded, "I'm not a Communist spy, I just wanted to see my fucking lover!"

Needless to say, it had been a while since he had willingly gone to the boy's house.

Then there was the fact that America was exasperated with how the older nation was going about the canal. And boy did he make it known. England was always being lectured in his spare time, and it was laughable that the other thought he had the right to do so. To scold him, and tell him how stupid he was. How he was making America look bad, and that was unacceptable. The Commie bastards were already breathing down his neck, and he did not need to be babysitting England as well as fight them. It didn't make him feel like dirt. Like he was the man's punching bag, his stress relief.

Those words did not hurt one bit. Really.

At least, he would not admit that they felt like a snake bite. His pride would never allow such a thing. Usually, when fights got too bad, he would storm away. If he did not do so, then their anger would become physical. Both had suffered broken bones from each other, and nobody won. Every time they did get violent, the other's trust in him dwindled. If he was in America, and saw the day heading in a bad direction, he would immediately leave and fly back to his home. If they were in England, the man would force himself out of his own home, cross the Channel, and stay at France's place for the night. The Frenchman never asked any questions when he arrived on his doorstep with no luggage, and a broken air around him. Rather, he would gently take his arm, and lead him to his usual guest room where he would toss and turn until he got fed up with himself, and slipped into his greatest rival's bed to be comforted.

Apologies were nonexistent. When the Brit arrived home the next day, his house would be empty. The cycle would continue, a vicious, redundant circle. England could not take much more of this physiological torture. Lovers were supposed to be there for each other, right? Supposed to support each other, right? Be a crutch to lean on, or an extended hand for when you fell. Yet all they did was push each other down, or rub salt into open wounds. It was not supposed to be that way. That is not how these kinds of relationships worked.

Sky blue met emerald green. Instead of filling England's heart with warmth and happiness, he only felt trepidation. Disappointment bore through him, leaving him feeling worthless again. Why did America do this to him? The island nation was so unstable, and it felt like he was being provoked intentionally. Unable to stop himself, he launched his pen at the middle of the American's forehead with all he had. It hit its mark, of course, the tip leaving a small black dot on tanned skin. Loudly, a curse echoed throughout the room, silencing the curious world. With flushed cheeks, and clenched hands, his boyfriend glared at him with burning fury. Russia could be heard snickering, and it egged him on even more. Though the Englishman knew he was going to be yelled at, he could not bring himself to care.

Luckily, before another fight was started, Germany tactically called a break. Steadily, the German nation was regaining their trust. They all knew that everyone makes mistakes, and it was their bosses that liked to disrupt their peace. Grateful, England nodded to the man, and ignored the American's cold leer. Knowing that he was not going to rise to the bait, the superpower turned to find someone else to talk to. Green eyes followed that familiar, broad back inconspicuously. It stopped in front of Hungary, who had been sitting with the rest of the Warsaw Pact, but as far away from Russia as possible. She was a strong nation with a steeled will, and England knew that she would not be sitting in that seat for much longer. Mentally, he sent his own encouragement.

Leaving the room would be best for him. As he rose from his seat, he did not bother to acknowledge France or Israel. The former was sending glares to Algeria while passing notes with Spain and Belgium. Striding towards the door, he took in all of the activity that was now going on in the room. Russia and Japan were walking to a more private part of the room, presumably to discuss business. That left no one to hold back China and Taiwan, who immediately began to rapidly spit insults to one another. All of the other Asians, even Thailand, were too drained to attempt to keep the peace. As he made it to the door, England took one last glance to see Prussia (or, East Germany as he was now politically known as) in one of the secluded corners with Germany and Northern Italy.

America was still intent on Hungary, obviously encouraging her resistant mood.

With a steady gait, the blonde headed towards the end of the long hallway. Just as he turned the corner, he halted and pressed against the wall. Sliding down, he let what was left of his charade fall. Would there ever be peace? Probably not, but even a little good will would be welcome. Whether he was thinking of the state of the world, or the state of his love life, he was not sure. It could apply to either. Maybe it was his own life? India was free, so were Ghana and Malaya. And all of the others before them. Sighing, England curled into himself, as if it would keep the rest of them in. But it would not. His empire was crumbling all around him, and there was nothing he could do about it. Frightened, he wrapped his arms around his knees; it's been a long, long time since he had felt so weak.

A hand, heavy but gentle, rested on his shoulder. Not America, informed his mind. It made his heart sink. "Canada, do you need something?" asked his muffled voice, since he refused to lift his head.

"You immediately know who I am when I touch you, but confuse me for someone else when you see me," stated the half-amused, half-sulking quiet voice. The elder snorted. "I wanted to check on you. I'm worried."

"Yeah, I know. You also don't agree with France and I," grumbled the bitter Briton. Finally lifting his head, he glared at the peach wall across from them. "Whatever. I don't care. You two don't understand what exactly this is doing to me. You're on the other side of the sodding ocean, it can't affect you like it does me."

Almost unhearable, his former colony sighed beside him. Guilt stirred in him, because he did not mean to snap at the kind boy like that. "How are you?"

Confused, he glanced at Canada. He was taken off guard, and it took a moment for the question to properly register. "You know how I am... Unlike your brother, you actually pay attention to world affairs."

Baffling the Englishman, Canada shook his head. "No, I know perfectly well how Britain is. What I meant was, how is Arthur?"

Dumbly, the island nation sat there. Indigo and green stared at each other, and England was at a loss for words. There was a stubborn set to the Canadian's lips that told him that there was no getting out of this. Unable to keep looking, he turned away. "Arthur is... I don't even know." It had been so long since he had been addressed that way, and it felt awkward. As he unconsciously folded in on himself once more, he felt the younger nation drape an arm across his shoulders. Lately it has been war after war, and England felt as if he has not rested in centuries. But Arthur... Arthur was lonely. Lost, and distressed, and wanted nothing but a friend to be there, and help him through all of the shit he was going through.

"Depressed," he answered finally, sounding broken. Saying nothing, Canada shifted closer. This small piece of kindness stinging the backs of his eyes. Always, he could count on the boy to be there for him. Mentally, England made a note to start appreciating him more. Starting with recognizing him right away, and mistaking him for America no more.

"It's time to head back."

"Yeah."

A minute later, and the two nations were up an walking back down the hallway. Entering the conference room, he noticed America give them a look. Ignore him. He sat back down between Israel and the Netherlands. No one bothered him, and he barely listened to the rest of the presenters. Two more days.

.:.:.:.:.

After the meetings were over and done with, England crossed the Channel and returned straight home. It would have been perfect, if America had not decided to join him. A few days. That is how long the taller man had planned his stay. Inwardly, the Brit thought, "We'll see."

Not that he does not want to spend time with his boyfriend. Because he does! If only the expectation of another round of fights was not hanging between them. Physically, the anxiety and apprehension made him feel ill. Now he knew that it was a bad idea to get together with America after the war. A very, very bad idea. But... he was just so happy back then. Feeling as though passion ripped them apart at the same time. They were like two trains on the same track, rushing towards each other, and no one could stop them.

Arriving at his house, England stepped forward and unlocked the door. During their trip barely any words were exchanged. What was said had been prim, and to the point. Letting himself in, America pushed past the shorter man. Throwing his luggage at the bottom of the stairs, he turned and unceremoniously flopped himself onto the sofa. His muddy boots were dirtying the armrest. "I'm hungry," he called, voice flat and body unmoving.

Hurt panged through England's chest, and he kept his mouth shut. When was the last time America had said something nice to him? Even a simple, "Hello, how are you?" He could not remember. With no intention of cooking any food, he went to the kitchen. Slipping in one of the hard, wooden chairs, he lay his head onto the table. Listlessness overcame him, and the Brit did not want to do anything at all.

Maybe he was depressed.

Should he break this off with America? Often he found this thought floating around the forefront of his mind. It clawed at him, and caused many sleepless nights. Honestly, he did not want to. England loved the little idiot far too much, but he was so unhappy with what they were. The word "lovers" did not even apply to them anymore. Both would probably be much happier if they separated. Or... maybe happy was not the right word. Relieved? Less stressed? Content? Regardless, it would be better than constantly walking on eggshells and broken glass. Stringing a line so taunt, one more tug would snap it in two.

Eventually he heard the other groan in frustration, and the squeak of his sofa. Though he remained apathetic. Blue eyes soon bore into his skull, and he could feel it. Dramatically, the American sighed, and England heard clumsy footsteps on the tile. Across from him, the chair scraped across the floor as America plopped in the seat. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, because he was obligated to do so.

Scoffing, the island nation felt his lips sneer in bubbling anger. Just that tone was enough to set him off these days. "Not a fucking thing."

Another sigh. "You're annoying when you get like this. Just tell me what's wrong."

"No."

A tense silence. "Are you hiding something from me?" the boy asked, suspicion almost tangible.

Snap. England's head shot up from the surface, and his fists hit the surface. "Oh, yes America! You see, I was thinking how unfortunate it was that you came over today, because I was planning on taking a stroll over to Russia's house so he could fuck all of his Communist cum right into me! You can't imagine how disappointed I am that you've ruined that opportunity for me!" he yelled, rage clouding his rationality. "I was even going to tell him everything I knew about you, and offer to send my own top spies to your house free of charge! But you're so busy playing God, and trying to keep me on a leash, I couldn't do that!"

Crimson colored the larger nation's face, spreading to his neck and ears. His nose was scrunched in disgust. "So what, you are planning on joining them? You think Communism is just?" Blue eyes darkened, and England could feel the danger radiating from his aura. Though he was not one to be easily intimidated, especially from a former colony.

"You know I don't agree with their fucking policies, but I'm smart enough to not go and compare dicks with Russia every chance I get!"

"I'm trying to save everyone, so I have to show the Soviets that they shouldn't fuck with me! And you have no right to tell me how to deal with my own situations! You're being a fucking moron about that God damned canal!"

"There is no other way!" shouted England, breaths heavy and voice cracking from the lump in his throat. It was trying to choke him.

"How about the peaceful way?"

"You tried, and look what happened!"

"Well sorry, but I have enough to worry about!"

"So do I!"

Cherry colored both English-speaking nation's face. Fury laced their everything, and it was too much. Sudden helplessness filled England, and he let his head fall back to the tabletop. Thump went his skull, and it echoed. Shoulders slumping, he felt his body go lax. He saw the fight coming. Saw it, but still could not prevent it. Could not keep calm through it.

"England?" The small, American accent sounded louder than any of their screams. An undertone of worry could be heard, and it made the Briton's heart flutter. Hope. No, not hope... but... something. Usually he would have stormed out by now, but today he simply did not feel like it.

"I can't remember."

"...Remember what?"

"The last time I was happy to be with you." All was hushed, and one might even call the scene tranquil if it were not overflowing with negativity. England was shocked that he had actually admitted such a thing out loud.

"I can't... either..." was his hesitant response.

England's heart felt like a stone: solid, cold, and being dragged into his stomach. They would be alright, he wanted to say. That this would pass, and he still loved America. He could not get the words out, though, knowing how sour they would taste. So alternately, he whispered, "I want us to work."

A hand, large and warm and calloused, wormed its way between his own. Gradually, he lifted his head. Across the table sat America. Young irises reflected his sad, stressed, and horribly lost state. For the first time in a decade, he was completely vulnerable in front of England. Speechless, the older man became hopeful. Just a little bit. "Me too, England, me too." Obviously he could have continued, but his voice was already so strained.

And then, it all seemed to click.

"Alfred," mumbled the Englishman, and it was deafening. The other was startled more than one would think, but he understood. "I don't need America. No, I don't want anything to do with America for the time being. And America doesn't want anything to do with England, either." As the other opened his mouth to protest, England held a hand up. "It is true, and you know it. America and England are extremely frustrated with each other, and both are too bloody stubborn to do anything about it! But... I do not need America right now." Flipping his hands over, he laced their fingers together. "I need Alfred, and you need Arthur."

America looked positively paralyzed. No surprise, since he had never been good with deep thoughts and feelings. Quiet now, his eyes glazed over in concentration. Arthur, because that is who he wanted to be now, let the boy be. Their hands were still grasping, which he claimed as a victory. It had been a while since they had this much nonviolent physical contact.

Now the silence between them was not hyped up with tension. Still a little stifling, yes, but not harshly so. Progress. Since their breathing had calmed, the only noise the Englishman could hear was the monotonous ticking of his clock hung above the doorway, and the tapping of Alfred's heel. Twitching at his lips was a tiny smile. The boy would never learn to sit still.

"Arthur..." Emeralds snapped to attention. Slouched over, it was now too easy to see the prominent bags under the American's eyes. To see the pitiful frown pulling at his lips. It was all so out of place on a face that was made to spread smiles and joy. "I'm so tired. And scared. I mean, I want to help everyone, but they all just keep fighting me! I'm trying to make the world a better place, but it's like I'm all alone, and no one even wants to help! I just, I can't-" Cerulean eyes shone with tears, and nothing could prevent them from falling. Laying his head on the surface below him, Alfred hid his rapidly flushing face from the one person who would not judge him.

A few tears rolled down Arthur's cheeks as well. He could not hold them in anymore. Slowly, he moved from his seat. Though Alfred did not budge, his hand gripped for dear life. Squeezing back in assurance, the Brit made his way to the taller man. Leaning down, he wrapped his other arm around a tan neck, and buried his nose into the American's temple.

Somehow the two kept shifting until Arthur was sitting sideways across Alfred's lap. Embracing, they hid ugly tear and snot stained faces from one another. It felt as though something had both crashed through, and lifted from both men. The Englishman's heart was not aching anymore. Though he was crying, he has not felt so happy in years.

"I miss you Alfred. Truly," he stated, only loud enough for the American to hear. "I miss talking with you. Kissing you. Listening to the radio, and dancing all alone in the living room. I miss your hand in mine, aimlessly walking around with you, holding you. I miss making love all night, and waking up at noon the next day with you beside me, hogging all of the blankets..."

Alfred snorted, and it was wet and disgusting. "You're the one that hogs the blankets, Artie," he chuckled weakly. But it was genuine. "Why do you always have to show me up with your beautiful words?" joked the taller man, and it made Arthur's heart beat.

"There was nothing beautiful about those words. I was only stating my feelings."

"Like I said, beautiful."

Trying to hide his awkward blush, the Briton dug deeper into Alfred's flesh. Damn him for being so blunt, and sweet. "I think... if we're to work, we need to communicate better."

"Yeah," agreed the blue-eyed blonde. He pulled him closer somehow. It felt as though they were molding together, and Arthur embraced it. "Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"I want to... make love to you. Or you to me. Make love with you? Whatever, but yeah."

Arthur's heart seemed to stop in his throat. Make love. It has been so long since that has happened. In recent times the only sexual intercourse they have had had been harsh. Angry fucking that left neither satisfied in the least. Afterwards they would be aching, bruised, bleeding, and in a worse mood than they had started with. It was horrible, and it always made him feel like utter and complete shit.

Pulling back, Arthur finally took in his American's face. Puffy, red eyes and blotchy skin greeted him. Not very pretty, but that was okay. Alfred was being sincere. Plus, his face surely looked the same. Sorrow, regret, and hope made those blue eyes shine brighter than the smaller man could remember. How could he refuse? With a small, shy smile, he closed in on those lips for a chaste kiss. "I'd love to."

Alfred smiled back, and even though there were no straight, white, blinding, teeth, it spoke volumes. Both were still guarded and confused, but they were more than willing to try and move past it. Getting off of the blonde's lap, Arthur stepped over to the sink to splash his face with cold water. His eyes were soothed, and the swelling went down a little. Turning, he caught Alfred wiping his own face with his sleeve. Tsking, Arthur attracted his attention and wordlessly ordered him to wash up as well.

Side-by-side, they padded their way to the man's bedroom. Untouching, and awkward. Still, they were unsure. At least Arthur was. Who could blame him? But it seemed that their whole relationship had been built on split second decisions, even back when they first met. Why not continue with the tradition?

Though the lights were off, and the curtains closed, the evening sun still found a way to seep into the room. Everything was colored dismal, and twilight. Ethereal, in a sense. Shrugging the dark beauty from his mind, Arthur shuffled to his bed to perch on its edge. The mattress was lumpy, but that is what he was used to. There was no money to buy him a new one, anyway. Still in the doorway was Alfred, looking younger and more lost than ever before. Taking his time, the boy scanned over everything from Arthur's chest of drawers, to his old ornate mirror, to his bay window. Patiently, he waited.

With little warning, the American then squared his jaw and stared straight at Arthur. Steady, long strides lead him to the bed. Big arms wrapped around the Englishman, and they tumbled to the sheets. Alfred was large, and warm around him. Under the musk of his cologne, he smelled of fresh air, and ginger. Breathing it in, Arthur let himself get lost in the scent's memories.

Using the way his lover approached him, Arthur thought that they would have been doing much more than grasping at each other. But that is all that was going on. Both if them were embracing, as if they would be destroyed if they ever let go. Confusion ebbed through the green-eyed man, but he was already suffering from the serious emotional whiplash with the way this day had turned out. It was a good thing, he thought.

"I just wanna hold you," murmured Alfred, rolling so that they were laying completely on the bed, instead of hanging halfway off. "I wanna hold you and never let go, Artie."

Snuggling closer, Arthur attempted to fuse himself to the man. He wanted to feel the way he did now, always. Loved. His arms shifted. Wandering hands felt everywhere they could reach. Traveling across the wide expanse of his American's back and shoulders, down muscular arms, and splayed out on his chest and abdomen. A couple of giggles sounded throughout his exploration, when his padded fingertips found particularly sensitive areas. "I want to touch you. To feel you. To know that you're always beside me."

Thick, long fingers threaded themselves into Arthur's hair. Guiding his head, Alfred stopped when their gazes were locked. Suddenly the Briton lunged forward to claim those lips. He missed them more desperately than he would ever admit. Falling into the kiss, the couple let it take them wherever it wanted. It was so easy. So easy to move their mouths against one another. So easy to let go of all of their previous distress, and focus solely on the sensation of togetherness. He could kiss Alfred forever; taste him and never be full.

As the two pulled away, Arthur noticed that their legs had also tangled together. Their bodies were telling them how much they really yearned for this kind of closeness. Slightly labored breaths mingled, but this time from passion, and not anger. From something much stronger than petty arguments. Alfred began to kiss his cheek, and the breathlessness was loud in his ear, and sending shivers down his spine. Full lips trailed down to his neck, and the Englishman was honestly surprised that the other remembered each one of his most sensitive spots. Bites were soon soothed by wet suckles, and this time he was not bleeding. It was tugging and sucking at pale flesh, and Arthur could not wait to see the marks that were surely forming. "Be mine," was mouthed across his skin.

"Always," Arthur gasped, feeling better than he had felt in years. Alfred was like fire. So easy to lose himself, and engulf everything in hellfire. But when in control, he was so warm and comfortable. Soothing, and mesmerizing. Always unpredictable, but sometimes that was not a bad thing. In his arms, Arthur melted, and would melt over and over again so long as he was not treated like a toy. Lower than dirt, and easily replaceable.

Kissing again, it was frantic. Tongues were playing, and hands were clutching white. Like this, Arthur felt high. Euphoric, and perfect. He could feel his lover against his thigh, and he was so proud of himself for exciting him so with nothing more than feelings, kisses, and light fondling. The smaller male's own arousal was trapped between their stomachs, and begging for friction. Leaving wide shoulders, his hands swiftly began to unbutton Alfred's shirt, untucking it in the process.

"I'll probably rip yours if I tried," pouted the blonde, voice deeper with lust. Arthur pulled the cotton from his frame, and threw it on the ground.

A large brow rose, but the Brit unbuttoned his shirt as well. "That never stopped you before." His voice was also husky, and he missed this.

Blue averted to the sheets. "Yeah... sorry... I'll pay you back." Nodding, Arthur shrugged off his shirt. Leaning down, he pressed their lips together once again. He was done talking, especially if this is where their chatter would lead to. Tan and pale chests rubbed together, and it was the start of their humanity draining. Both could not wait until thought was nonexistent, and instinct took hold of their pleasure, allowing them to be wild.

Evening passed, and time was irrelevant. Lovers followed their own schedule, and did everything at their own pace. Eventually the rest of their clothing joined their shirts on the floor. Damaged bodies were worshiped, and possessively marked in bitemarks and sweat. All of the natural, heady smells were driving Arthur crazy. Taking his time, he prepared his American. Stretching him out slowly, and teasing him whenever he had the chance. It took longer than ever before, and the blonde knew that their climax would be incredible. Impatience sculpted Alfred's expression, but he did not ask for it to stop.

When Arthur entered, it was slow and gentle. Steady went their lovemaking, and it was the best of feelings. Motions were fluid, and weak kisses were exchanged between thrusts. Nails clawed at scarred skin, moans sang like hymns in the early nighttime. The sun had set, leaving the two English-speakers in cool darkness. Heightened senses overloaded, and when paradise knocked, neither dawdled in flinging the door open.

Together they lay entwined, limbs twisting around like tree branches. It had been too long since Arthur had felt so whole. Right now, the weight of his country's hardships was small. Worry could resume tomorrow. At the moment he was caught in his afterglow, and catching his breath. Alfred tangled through him, and the elder would not move willingly. He was at ease, and his lover was sane. All seemed to be normal again.

Cuddling closer, he nuzzled his American's chest. "We are going to have a talk tomorrow."

Alfred's hard knuckles were trailing up and down Arthur's protruding spine. Britain may have officially stopped rationing two years ago, but the man had not. He sighed. "I know... And I'll do whatever it takes to fix us." Smiling, Arthur nodded his head. "I missed you."

Missed him. Sometime earlier, the Englishman had realized that he was being unfair towards his love. Just as America was making his life difficult, he was doing the same right back. Arthur knew that he was naturally standoffish, even more so in times of stress or struggle. The world terrified him. Harsh reality had left him with permanent cicatrices at an early age. To protect himself, he closed himself up, and began to defend himself even when no one was intentionally provoking him. Since America was such an act first, think later kind of person, he would unintentionally say or do something England found offensive, or hurtful. Then Arthur would lash out, like a lion with a thorn in its paw. Now that he had the time to think on this, the Brit mentally slapped himself. "I missed you too... and... I'm sorry."

Legs hooking, their heartbeats were finally beating regularly. Light as air, Arthur sighed a breath of relief. Maybe they would not have to separate. Yes, they were completely hopeless, but they were hopeless together. Growth would be the outcome of this hardship. Alfred can teach him how to express himself better, and he could teach the American how to handle all of the power that had been so suddenly thrust upon him. They would bloom with each other, and maybe someday there would be a time of peace where they could truly be intimate.

For now, Arthur was content to fall asleep in his young lover's arms, and have his first restful sleep since before those tiring wars.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

If I've made any inaccuracies, don't hesitate to point them out.

Notes:

The Cold War - America was wary of the Soviet Union's expansion, fearing that they were trying to take over the world. The Soviets were wary of America's arms buildup, and annoyed at how America kept butting his head in international affairs.

Suez Canal Crisis - The canal was the only direct means of travel from the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean. Free passage was granted, until Britain and France thought it would be a good idea to try and take control of it. Egypt thought it should be his. Before this, Britain and America were going to help Egypt build a dam in the Nile, but they backed out. So Egypt nationalized the canal to get money for the dam (and to get back at them). So Britain and France got angry, and joined up with Israel to fight Egypt. They gained control of the canal, but then the UN was like, "Whoa there, no. Give it back." In March of 1957, Egypt gained official control of the canal, as long as they let all vessels through.

During this summit, the US proposed the Suez Canal Users Association. Which the USSR vetoed.

Canada also disagreed with using force. So one of his guys came up with the Pearson Peace Plan, which made the "United Nation's Emergency Force". It was under Canadian command, and they kept peace between the borders until the conflict was solved. It worked, and that was the beginning of Canada being recognized for his peacekeeping nature.

The Communist Party in Germany was disbanded in August, 1956, so I think America was starting to regain his respect for him then. Not that he had much of an opinion before the wars, being all Isolationist and all.

(Edit. I was wrong about this earlier. My apologies. Thank you FlygonRider for pointing out my mistake!) The Hungarian Revolution began in October of 1956. Though she fought heartily, the Soviets brought in the big guns on November 4th, and that was that. America didn't do anything to directly help her, but he was cheering her on from the sidelines.

Japan and Russia were were fighting over the Kuril Islands, but signed a peace treaty on October 19th.

Welp, that's that. I'd like to do more of this kind of stuff again. History is fantastic, and I like learning about country relations in different decades. Soooo, thanks for reading, and I hope to see y'all again sometime!

xoxoxoxoxoxo


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